Probably Not to Do with the Whiskey
by Twirl
Summary: Hugo Stiglitz puts a different name down on the card he slides to the Gestapo Major sitting beside him, to the immense dismay of those around him.


**DISCLAIMER: **_Really, if it were mine, Stiglitz would have lived. Donny too. _

_Nothing really special to say about this one, except that this is what both my father and myself thought Stiglitz was going to write on that card he slide to the Gestapo major. Actually, I kind of hoped he would have written this. Would have made me a whole lot happier. _

* * *

Not a one of them is happy with me, especially not the Brit officer. Though, I can't, for the life of me, bring myself to care about what a Brit thinks. Especially not this one.

"Am I German?"

"Ja," the table choruses, the Brit using the cover of a small drink to shoot me the most dirty look I've received since leaving the German army. Really, I don't see what he's so annoyed about. I have not shoved my whiskey glass into the Nazi's eye socket, though the glass sits brewing condensation in my fingers, never mind the fact that I have such a beautiful angle of attack right here... I am calm, I am calm, I am calm. I am harmlessly relieving some pressure. The little Bear Jew in the back of my mind wants to remind him that I am not the reason there is a Gestapo major at our table, in the little tavern that was supposed to be devoid of Nazi life, but I ignore the tiny Donowitz. I behave.

"Am I still alive?"

"Ja," the table choruses again, though the look Wicki sends me, mixed with amusement and disapproval, clearly says I may not be for much longer once there are no longer any witnesses to hold the good Brit back. So, since I have spent so much time with Lt. Raine, I can't help but add a, "Not for lack of trying," as I take another sip of whiskey. It is a pleasant burn going down, a burn I hadn't realized I missed until I had the ability to taste it again. I'd count whiskey right up there with petty revenge among life's little joys.

"Am I famous?"

"Ja, very," I say, because it's true, my lips finding their way into a smirk as the Fraulien givens me a well hidden look of sudden recognition and horror. I had wondered if the good Fraulien knew whose cheek she kissed, just whose nose her perfume still tingled... Well, she knew now, and I would be lying if I said it wasn't the tiniest bit funny how uncomfortable she was trying not to look.

"So, I am German, I am alive, and I am famous, with the implication that every German should know me. It seems too easy, but I must ask. Am I in the army?"

"Ja," I say, in the exact same moment the Austrian says, "Nein."

There is a moment in which we stare at each other, the Austrian and me. I know what is going through Wicki's mind, as if it were going through my own. My loyalty has never been a question with Lt. Raine, and I have since earned over every Basterd that has ever doubted me by matching and surpassing them in sheer savagery. But, as I can imagine, there must have been some kind of seed, a tiny little shred of doubt that must have gnawed at them as I slept not too far from them, as I took watches, as I armed myself with prizes from the dead. Wicki has always been good at hiding his emotions, and I cannot begin to fathom what is happening beneath those dark eyes right now. Even though there is a small part of me that wants to hold out until he actually shows some emotion, I remind myself there is always time for that game later, when there is not a Gestapo major sitting beside me.

"You are no longer in the army," I say, and I can almost see Wicki deflate, staring as I am, "However, your most important exploits occur when you are in."

He is making sounds now, contemplative ones, this Nazi. Officer Gestapo. Big tough man with a silly card on his forehead. It isn't hard to make a promise to myself, a promise of a bigger revenge than the one I am already exacting, that no matter how the four of us--to borrow a peculiar phrase from Lt. Raine--bullshitted our way out of this, I will, without a doubt, kill this man. Slowly, if at all possible.

It is the only thing keeping me in my seat as he smacks me again, as he touches me again, congratulating me on picking such a hard one.

The petty part of me, the very same part that planned this, can't help but wonder if he'll feel the same after all is said and done, after that little name on the card is revealed.

"Am I fictitious?"

"Nein," the table choruses.

"Am I real, then?"

"Ja," the table choruses.

"Am I member of the high command?"

"Nein," the table choruses.

"Would my exploits be praised by the newspapers?"

"Not the German ones," Wicki says, taking a sip of his own drink to hide a smile. I don't bother to hide one of my own. Good for him, finally seeing the joke in this. He'll back me up when the time comes to report what happened to Lt. Raine. Hell, the tiny Lt. Raine in my head is laughing his ass off already. The Brit can look as stern and unapproving as he likes; the Basterds'll side with me.

There are those contemplative noises again, noises I'm not sure I can handle if they happen even once more. It is easy to remind myself that I will get to kill him at some point, but the future often proves unsure, while the present is so much… No. Cannot compromise the mission, after all, cannot compromise the Fraulien's cover. I behave.

"I am German, I am alive, I am famous, my exploits would have been praised by newspapers other than the German ones… I am real…" There is a single moment's pause before he speaks again, "Am I an infamous criminal?"

"Ja," the table choruses, and I can't subdue the small smile that spreads across my lips, nor the sudden feeling of pride in my chest. Hearing the Gestapo bastard say the word criminal as a means of describing himself, even if he really meant the name on the card, puts the strangest feeling of warmth in my chest that I don't believe has anything to do with the whiskey in my hand.

"Was I to be made an example of in Berlin?"

"Ja," the table choruses and I almost growl. The warmth in my chest has managed to migrate and mutate within the span of two questions, settling itself into a sharp pain to the majority of my back. Reminders, each and every scar, reminders in a tangible sense since I do not need any more intangible reasons, as to why this man beside me should not be allowed to draw breath. Why he should not even be called a man. Everything I hate, inches away from me, still able to draw breath enough to question the stupid card stuck to his forehead.

I behave. Soon… Soon, I promise.

"Was I rescued by terrorists?"

"Ja," the table choruses. The tiny Lt. Raine inside my head is quite pleased to be called a terrorist.

"Was my crime the murdering of thirteen Gestapo officers?"

"Ja," I say, the only one to speak this time, all others too tense or afraid to even make a sound. This is the moment of truth.

"Am I Hugo Stiglitz?"

The required congratulations go around the table, the Fraulien even making a show of clapping her hands and cheering. The major himself congratulates me on such a good choice, though I can see the tiniest flicker of recognition in his eyes, the tiniest loss of a shade or two of color. He suspects, but he does not know, I imagine. Before he can remark further, the Brit draws more attention to himself and his atrocious accent (note to self: hear a man's German before letting him speak it) to invite the man to leave. It is very rude, the major is very suave, the tension is no longer fun and the Brit screws up royally ordering three whiskeys… I take far too much pleasure holding a gun to the man's testicles.

This time, when he looks up, I know he knows who I am. I know it was petty, I know it probably won't matter in the grand scheme of things, but now it looks like I won't be leaving here alive and I intend to suck the fun out of what I can while I still can. I know death will come soon.

Before that happens, though… having a man know exactly who you are before you blow off his balls may just be the best feeling in the world.

* * *

**A/N: **

_Shameless plug: In my trying to get back into the swing of things, I've been writing little ficlets, so I may go back and update **Murphy's Law** with some kind of quality. This is the first story that will also be posted over at lj, under the name skynetdevteam. I'd appreciate any and all feedback on my writing, so if you are more comfortable leaving it there, please do so.  
_


End file.
